I've been putting some seriously lengthy blog entries here, and I appreciate everyone looking while I'm away. I'm doing this for my journal as I would never be able to handwrite all this and I need to keep it somewhere, so.......you've been warned about the big blog.]
This morning I had the high honor of sitting and talking with Marge Byrd, lifetime Wrangell resident and Tlingit Elder. I sat at her feet on the deep-blue shag carpeted floor of her home while she sat on the couch. Out the windows the ocean looked so close it was as if we rode the waves on a boat. Her house was decorated with many priceless Tlingit artifacts, mostly all gifts, and frogs of all kinds. She is of the Kiksetti clan, whose crest is frog. Her husband Lee, a non-native she said "wasn't white like 'those' white people," passed away ten years ago and she moved out of her big house next door and cleared the land where her mobile home now sits. She figured why buy a new house when I have this land and can be close to family? (her daughter Ethel purchased the family home and lives just a few yards away--I grew up with Ethel and remember her a couple years younger than I) Marge recently had an addition put on her house where she sews, which she calls her 'native room'. I had thought I would 'collect' the interview on video, but once we began talking I completely forgot about trying to 'capture' her image or stories. Tlingit history is mostly spoken and I am relating what was told to me today from where it resides in my memory. Hopefully I will give it justice.
One of the many things she spoke of to me was how some whites, just the christian missionaries, the government and the BIA, forced natives to abandon their culture; to sever all ties and forget about being native and live as white people in a white world. Now, ironically, the same organizations 'encourage' natives to revive their language and culture and remind them they'd better hurry before it dies out. Most all the elders who contained the knowledge have passed on, and while Marge doesn't feel her culture is dying it has some serious hurdles to overcome.
She told me a tale of being approached by a US Forest Service representative about thirteen years ago. He said they had located a very old bentwood box which appeared to contain human remains. This was located in a cave and they were very concerned it would be discovered and taken and urged Marge to contact the Tlingit elders to find out just what they wanted to do with the box. So, Marge rounded up the elders and had a meeting at the senior center with a USFS representative. The Elders' feeling was that the box had lain undisturbed in the cave for this long and it was best to just leave it alone. It was placed there for a reason and it should be left alone. The USFS couldn't believe that was the Elders' consensus. They kept cajoling Marge and repeating "Someone will take it! We have to put it somewhere safe!" She said "I stand with the Elders and the box was placed there for a reason and should remain there. It hasn't been touched in all this time, it will be fine." About a month later the USFS contacted her and said "We're going to get the box and put it in the state museum in Juneau and we'd like you to accompany us. " (don't that just beat all, good reader?) She said she rode in the boat to where the cave was located up a steep hill quite a long ways. The entrance walls of the area were decorated with paintings and petroglyph carvings which practically none alive today could decipher. She didn't want to be there and she didn't want to even look at these people who were going against the wishes of those they had 'asked' for guidance. She found a stump to sit on and looked out at the view as the USFS guys crawled into this tight cave which was barely visible. Remember, it had been undiscovered for all this time but these guys had to shinny their pale asses in there to 'rescue' this artifact. Marge said whomever was buried there must have been of high standing as the view from the entrance was just amazing. She said you could see allllll the way up the straight this way and allllll the way down the straight that way. She reminded me how her people consider the Land Otter to be a very powerful figure in Tlingit culture. As Marge Byrd watched and waited for the forest service guys to graverob the priceless bentwood box to stave off a possible graverobbing, she noticed an otter come up from the water and examine what was happening. She knew the Land Otter was there to protect this and was certainly aware. I wanted to ask her more about this, but it seemed to be a painful tale. (I believe the Land Otter was a protector who saw the box had been undisturbed for so long.) I wonder how she felt being present while the box was 'saved'. She said it was like if you went to a graveyard while someone dug up your grandma to make sure she was safe. The bentwood box with remains was moved to Juneau. Wrangell didn't have a suitable location to house the box at the time, but this June, Marge will travel to Juneau to retrieve the box and a priceless Raven rattle, recovered through new repatriation legislation. The problem for Wrangell is that all elders who could identify and link items to Wrangell are deceased. Both items are to be housed in the nearly completed Nolan Center Museum here in Wrangell.
Her late husband Lee cooked for many years at the Wrangell Institute which I have spoken of in other postings. She said when their son, Lee, was traveling in the villages up north that people knew who he was just by looking at him. Marge says word spreads fast around the villages and don't I know what she means. She said people would approach and ask, "Are you Lee Byrd?" "Yes, I am." "We know your dad. We went to the Institute in Wrangell. We liked him." It pleased me to hear a story of someone from the Wrangell Institute who was remembered fondly.
Marge said of the news report about the Wrangell Institute I have commented on earlier was fine, except for just one thing: The reporter claiming that a similar school in Mt. Edgecumbe was much better in comparison to Wrangell. She said "I know it was just as bad." Marge told me of her mentor and how she was sent to the school in Haines where they would punish you for speaking your native tongue by locking you in a closet. "My mentor said she spent a lot of time locked in the closet!"
The view from Marge's windows is nothing short of breathtaking, and a totally new view of usual sights for me from a place on the beach I had never been. She said salmon now run up the creek which empties right next to her trailer, and often six to eight seals are cruising there when the tide is high. She said something I've heard several times while I've been on Wrangell this trip: "You know, I could never get tired of looking at this view." As I've said before, the view to me while growing up here was that of being locked in a terrible wilderness prison. Now as an adult, I find God everywhere I look here and the views are truly magnificient.
It seemed the right thing to do, that not taking any images or video from my visit with Marge, even though I'm sure she wouldn't have minded. It's just what happened as it went down and I know it was the right choice. I feel as a non-native, I have no interest in being perceived as a 'taker'.
She spoke of just how few 'true' Wrangell natives still exist. Minnie Kalkins and her family, Mae Dailey and hers. Richard Rinehart. That's about it. So few remain. Marge spoke of her faith and how without it, she would not have survived the loss of her husband. When Lee died, Marge was mad at him because he left without her and was up in heaven with all their friends and family having a great time without her. The knowledge she will one day be with Lee gives her great peace.
Marge speaks quietly and slowly in a pleasant loving voice. Sometimes as she's formulating words a singsong tone emanates from her throat like some beautiful bird, one that is free and not locked in a cage. She showed me many photos of family adorning the walls and very old ones of her Father who was crowned Chief Shakes VIII. There was a BW photo of her great-great grandfather, William U'kas, who carved the famous Wrangell Raven and Kiksetti totems. She spoke of how terrible it was when missionaries came and forced natives to burn their totem poles and regalia. In Kake village, she said when the young people brought back the dance, Elders brought out from hiding artifacts and regalia they had secreted away so the missionaries wouldn't find them. It is from villages now like Kake with dance troupes of over forty that she has faith Wrangell will find its way. She said when they were going to stand the re-carved Raven totem on Kiksetti land where it originally stood (remember, Marge's people put things in certain spots for a reason) she received a letter from the Baptist Church which said: "We don't want your totem on OUR land near OUR church." She explained to me native people do not worship totem poles; they tell stories, tell us who we are. How nice, those kind Christian Baptists who are so ignorant in these modern times to think natives actually worship a painted monument of wood, likening them to pagan devil worshipers. She spoke of being contacted by people researching natives to write books and she said of most literature concerning natives they are always referred to as 'savages' 'godless heathens' and so forth. She says natives have always worshipped the same god as the christians. They survived the same flood which wiped most of the others out. They sought high ground. If you look closely at Tlingit and Haida oral histories, they bear a striking resemblence to the bible. How strange. Not really.
Marge showed me a staff she had been entrusted by her father as caregiver for. Being a caregiver of ancient Tlingit artifacts is no small responsibility. For instance she told me about the time some 'collectors' were told to seek Marge out because she had some and showed up at her door. (She talked about 'collectors' who exploit others' weaknesses. For instance someone convinced one of her relatives to sell William U'kas' carving tools because he had a weakness for drink and they knew he would jump at the cash.) These people at her door said "Name your price, we'll give you anything you want for these items." Marge patiently explained to them (and to me) how there are some things you can not put a price on. They said again "we will give you any price you name." She kindly offered to let them look at the items they would buy. As they left they parted with "If you ever change your mind...." Yeah, little chance of that. She says "I have children, I have grandchildren. I would leave these items for them as their heritage; as who they are. Besides, I am only caregiver for this staff. I am NOT the owner." She related some villagers in Klukwan who were caregivers of certain artifacts which they sold and could never get back. Apparently the new museum will house the staff and robe. The staff is about five and a half feet long. The handle looks like vertebrae joined end to end coming to a raven's head in profile with a long beak. There are spaces where abalone inlays once adorned they eyes and nostrils but have since been lost. One ear is broken off, the other contains two tiny carved faces. She said carver Steve Brown vowed he would one day replace the broken ear. The head of the staff is faded with great age but the traditional blue-green, red, and black still show. The bottom beak of the raven has been replaced and juts unpainted but still old looking with rich woodgrain. She showed me dance paddles her mother had carved as gifts for the 1940 potlatch to honor Chief Shakes VII. Her mother was a Kiksetti princess and it is customary for those of high rank to give gifts to honored guests at a potlatch. Marge showed me a print drawn by Steve Brown of the bear head design from the panel in Shakes' house. She had these printed and gave them away as gifts at the re-dedication of shakes house to honored guests.
Marge honored me by speaking kindly twice of my mother's efforts in the community; Her working so hard for others' benefit, and Marge not minding when my mom asks for help because she knows my mother is working much harder then anyone else.
She said originally her family lived where now stands a laundromat by the cannery. She is youngest of 8 siblings, four brothers and three girls. Only one sister and Marge remain of the eight children. Marge's older brother Herb Bradley was a renowned native historian. She told me when her sister came to visit last summer. Her brother-in-law came too and Marge admitted she always has a better time when with her sister when he doesn't come heh heh heh! They planned a trip to Sitka to see their older brother who would soon pass. They were going to fly up and ride the ferry back. Her brother-in-law changed his mind and said "we'll fly up AND fly back." Disappointed they would now not get to share a liesurely ferry ride through SE together, Marge's sister wouldn't dream of going against her husband. So Marge says: "We will FLY up and we WILL take the FERRY back, end of story." Her brother-in-law said, "oh. ok." After seeing their brother on the ferry ride back to Wrangell they were treated to a rare Alaska ferry ocurrance: At one spot, they discovered many whales, Orca and Humpback who jumped and played in the waves. The ferry actually stopped so the passengers could enjoy this display of magnificience. Marge enjoyed saying to her brother-in-law, "Aren't you glad we didn't FLY back, EH???" We laughed at this tale.
Marge spoke of one of her brothers who was raised by her grandparents (she didn't know them as they had passed when she was born) and knew so many many rare stories of their family and of Wrangell. He was encouraged to record his stories but he was concerned about messing up, she said, and couldn't understand the concept that he could go back and re-record if he made a mistake. She said they were able to get one tape-recording with him before he passed.
She said others have encouraged her to record her stories so that they may not be lost. But she explained when something is such a part of who you are, how do you select what to tell of? What do you say?
I am trying to do as Sam Schrager says and get this down while it is still in my head. I didn't even take any jottings. This is just all from memory and quite lengthy but, kind reader, this is my journal I write to share with you if you decide to look.
The house is coming down around me and the air grows hectic with the sad cries of unhappiness I will not comment on here--however, I feel I must sign off and gain a little distance for myself.